


Legacy of the Lost

by kireteiru



Series: Variations on a Theme [4]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Crossover, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23986675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: “No earthly act escapes its eternal echoes, echoes more substantial than the acts themselves.” ― Geoffrey Wood
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Idril (Shadow of Mordor)/Baranor (Shadow of Mordor), Talion (Shadow of Mordor) & Idril (Shadow of Mordor), Talion (Shadow of Mordor) & Orc(s)
Series: Variations on a Theme [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485791
Comments: 1
Kudos: 103





	1. Legacy of the Lost

**Author's Note:**

> CAN YOU TELL THAT I'VE FINALLY FINISHED MY MASSIVE HALO FIC

Frodo was beginning to panic. The more he and Sam struggled, the tighter the web bound them, and he could hear footsteps drawing near. If they were caught - he didn't want to think about what would happen if they were caught by the orcs - to them and to the Ring, and by extension, to the rest of Middle-earth.

It hardly needed the prompting, but the Ring called up the visions he had seen in Galadriel’s mirror - the Shire burning, the hobbits in chains with leering orcs looming over them. He struggled harder.

But what entered the tunnel was no orc. It was a woman, strange and sinisterly beautiful, with pale skin and long dark hair and wearing an equally dark dress. She held up the odd werelight she was using to see by. “What have we here?” she said softly, her voice like silk on the edge of a knife, “Halflings? And so far from home, too.” She paused, and her eyes lingered on his neck.

Frodo looked down, and saw that in his struggles, the Ring had slipped free from his shirt, the gold band glinting in the werelight. He looked back up just in time to see a smile that sent shivers through him vanish from her face. “Come now. Let’s get you down from there.”

The hobbit didn't see what she did, but it was the work of only a few moments for her to have them free and shivering on the floor of the tunnel. “There. That’s better, isn't it? Although I must confess, I _am_ curious; what brings two halflings to the borders of Mordor? And _alone_ , too.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,” Sam said, blushing and looking away, “But we’re hobbits, and we’re not alone. Or we wasn’t anyway - we lost the friends who were with us.”

“Lost?” she repeated, slim eyebrows climbing skyward, “By death? Or were they simply misplaced?”

“We don’t rightly know - perhaps both by now.”

“Hm. That _is_ a problem. Perhaps I can provide you some new ones. Come with me, little hobbits.”

The woman led them deeper into the tunnels to a small side cavern thick with web. She put the werelight in something like a sconce in the center of the cavern, said, “Wait here. I will return soon,” and vanished into the dark.

Frodo and Sam hovered close to the werelight, which held steady even without her there to sustain it. An indeterminable amount of time passed, time the two hobbits used to pull web off of each other and eat a little of the remaining Lembas from Lothlórien, bolstering their strength.

Then there were footsteps again - two pairs this time, and a faint golden glow. The woman returned - with an _Elf_. She was as bright and bronzed as the woman was dark and pale, her armor light and sleek with two long daggers sheathed over her back. She was the source of the glow, and though she was clearly dangerous, her presence set both hobbits at ease.

“Well met,” she said with a slight smile, “I am Eltariel. I will take you to Idril, so we can see what might be done for you.”

Frodo found his voice at last and introduced himself and Sam. The Elf seemed to know _his_ name, at least, because her eyebrows briefly flicked upwards in surprise and sudden understanding. But then the expression was gone just as fast as it had come, and she bowed to the woman before leading them away by the light of a stone held to her palm by a few twisting wires.

Frodo looked back as they went, to the woman with the werelight. The werelight went out, but by the light of Eltariel’s stone, he saw gleaming fangs and long segmented legs in the dark.

* * *

The tunnels were a tangled mess, many covered with web, but with Eltariel leading the way, they soon left those behind. The new tunnels were natural, it seemed, some low such that the Elf was bent almost double to get through, and others so narrow that all of them had to shuffle along sideways like crabs to get through. They sidled through one such crack and emerged in another wider tunnel, this one clearly roughly worked to allow beings more than twice the Elf’s height to pass without even scraping their heads.

“This way,” she said, and led the way down one branch of the tunnel. Frodo was completely turned around; he couldn't even say where they were, let alone where they were going, but Eltariel seemed to know exactly where to go. “Now, I must warn you before we arrive, what you will see will seem… _strange_ to you - and to most of the West, for that matter - but no one means you any harm. On the off chance that one of them does, you have my word that I will defend you. Fair?”

The hobbits looked at each other, then back at her and nodded. She nodded back and pushed their way through several layers of rough, thick cloth hanging across the tunnel.

They emerged in a wide cavern, dim light streaming through holes in the roof high overhead. The cavern itself was filled with structures of all sorts, wood and metal and stone and packed earth, some reaching up toward the skylights overhead, their upper levels connected by crisscrossing bridges anchored into the roof. A river snaked across the floor far below, turning half a dozen wheels and providing water for the city.

There was activity everywhere and - _orcs_ , orcs and _Men_ , working together to maintain the underground city. Frodo was not ashamed to say that his mouth fell open in surprise and awe, and Sam was in a similar state.

Eltariel ignored it all with ease born of long familiarity. “This way, Master Baggins, Master Gamgee. Stay close.”

She led them into the city. The orcs and men called greetings to her as she passed, which she returned, though she did not stop to talk. Frodo saw more than one person gazing at them in surprise and confusion, but they just shrugged and kept working.

All of them were armed and armored - which made sense, since they lived on the border of Mordor.

They arrived at a wooden structure almost directly below the largest opening in the roof, offset just enough to be intentional. Eltariel nodded to the three orcs and the one man guarding the main door, which they returned, before heading inside, the hobbits close behind.

Half a dozen short halls, and she opened the door to a meeting chamber and ushered them inside. Here there were more men and orcs and even two dwarves, all leaning over a map and throwing out suggestions for what seemed to be battle plans. There was another Elf, too - just the one, but he looked almost like Lord Elrond, though his eyes were a bright blue rather than dove gray. When Eltariel entered, all of them looked up - including the woman who must have been the leader. She was stern-looking, with golden hair just starting to gray pulled back into a messy twist at the back of her head, and a straight but wicked scar across her forehead and another along her jaw. But she wasn't unkind, her clear blue eyes softening when she spotted the half-frightened hobbits huddling behind the Elf. “A moment, if you please,” she said to the others, and they all shuffled out.

Most of them, anyway. An old - _very_ old - dark-skinned man remained, sitting next to the woman. His hair was completely white, and his face was almost as wrinkled as the Mûmakil they had seen on the road south.

“This is Idril, and her husband Baranor,” said Eltariel to the hobbits, before she turned to the woman and man. “These are Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire.”

Both of them seemed to know the names, too, because Baranor blinked sharply and Idril straightened, eyebrows climbing the same way Eltariel’s had. Yet there was both relief and grief in their expressions. “You have it, don’t you,” Idril said to them, “That _thing_ that he seeks. Have you come to destroy it or return it to its master?”

“Destroy it!” Sam protested at once, “We ain’t no servants of darkness!”

“ _Good_ ,” said Idril, “At long last, our fight is almost over. We will help you as best we can.”

“ _All_ of you?” Frodo said.

She seemed to understand what he was questioning, because she gave him a soft, amused look. “It seems strange, I know. I thought the same when I was first - _brought in_ , shall we say. But yes. _All_ of us.”

She called the others back in. “Change of plans,” she told them, “There is something we _must_ do. Torz, how swiftly can we organize a push on Gorgoroth? We _need_ to take that fortress, but we also need to be ready to leave it quickly.”

The orc looked confused, briefly glancing at the hobbits, but none of them questioned it, only supplied numbers and ideas. They debated for some time before apparently hammering something out, because the meeting broke not long after that, everyone scattering to get to work. When they had gone, Idril turned back to them. “Gorgoroth is the closest fortress to Mount Doom,” she told them, “We can take you that far, disguise your approach - to the Dark Lord, what are two more ants among thousands? - and Eltariel can escort you the rest of the way while we hold the attention of the Eye.

“Get some rest, hobbits. We have a long march ahead of us.”

* * *

Eltariel brought them to her rooms elsewhere in the building and let them take her bed, standing guard while they rested, as tireless as her kin.

Frodo slept, but it wasn't really _restful_ ; he woke almost as tired as when he’d gone to sleep, the Ring weighing heavy on his mind.

It was the middle of the night, but the silvery light of the moon shone down clear through the skylights when he got up to wander, the Elf close behind, leaving two Men to guard Sam as he slept.

There was something like a garden behind the building - the headquarters, he assumed - with an _unusual_ monument at the center. It was a block of some kind of soft stone, with a dark sword embedded in it to about halfway up the blade. There was a dagger in front of it, also driven into the stone, with a bloodstained white scarf tied around the handle.

He frowned at it, but then he noticed that he and Eltariel weren't alone. There were benches scattered through the rows of plants, and Idril was sitting on one of them, face turned toward the monument but eyes closed as if she was praying. He was reluctant to disturb her peace, but he was curious, too. Frodo padded over and asked both women, “Who is this memorial for?”

After a moment, Idril opened her eyes and answered, “My father, though not by blood. He lost his family to the dark tide of Mordor, and so did I. He took me in - raised me better than my blood father, in some ways - and made all of _this_ possible.” She waved her hand around at the buildings and the few people still moving around. Most were asleep, resting in preparation for the march to come, and the battles after.

“And what became of him?”

Frodo sensed he’d touched a sensitive subject, because Eltariel shifted behind him and Idril was silent for a long time. At last she said, “He fell into darkness, though not of his own will. He’s one of the Nine now.”

The hobbit tensed. The Nine - the Ringwraiths. He remembered the long robes and shadowed hoods, distant shrieks and cries, calling for the Ring. He’d seen their faces while wearing it, before he’d been stabbed on Weathertop, but only five of their number; there was no way to know which of them he was, if any, and the hobbit had no desire to stir up any more pain. “...I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.

Idril shook her head. “It’s not your fault,” she said, finally looking away from the memorial, “He made the choice to defend the West for as long as possible, even at the cost of his own soul. He fought with strength and courage for as long as he could, and though he is a Nazgûl now, I am still honored to call him my father.” She got to her feet. “If Eru is merciful, he will die quickly when the Dark Tower falls, and be reunited with his wife and son and be at peace at long last.”

* * *

The caverns and tunnels honeycombed this section of the Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow. One such tunnel let them out north past the fortress at Cirith Ungol, which had been reinforced in an attempt to stop them from coming through and raiding. In reality, those reinforcements had only served to keep the one known as the “Spider Queen” and her brood well-fed, doing essentially nothing to halt the comings and goings of the rebels.

As they marched alongside them, Frodo learned that these orcs were originally outcasts from Sauron’s armies, left on the fringes for one reason or another. Some took no pleasure in fighting the way their kin did, even though they were good at it, and so were ostracized; others were better at fighting with their minds than their bodies, the thinkers and planners who had no place in the Dark Lord’s ranks, inventors of things that had no place in war; still others had once been born as slaves but were released, and now fought to do the same for their siblings still in chains. It was similar with the Men; most had once been slaves of the Dark Tower, freed by Idril’s fallen father, now turned against the Maia who had held them in bonds. But some - some were from Gondor, the last survivors of Minas Ithil before it fell and became Minas Morgul, along with Rangers of Ithilien who worked with them in secret. They were a patchwork force compared to the armies of both Gondor proper and the Dark Lord, but they held tight to each other and were fiercely loyal.

And they weren’t alone. They had a great many creatures with them, too: Warg-like cats called _caragors_ , great troll-like beasts called _graugs_ , and a number of dragon-like _fire drakes_. Some of them seemed more like pets than war-beasts, the caragors and drakes rubbing up against their riders and purring. Of these last, there was one who seemed to be their queen; she was not quite twice the size of the other drakes, red as blood, with blazing golden eyes and a form full of wrath. She wore a leather and metal harness like the others, but hers was dyed _black_ , unlike the simple brown of the rest.

“Her name is Daerwen,” Eltariel said when she noticed Frodo eyeing the red beast, “She belonged to Talion before his fall, because she’s too vicious for anyone else to handle, hence her name - _Dreadful Woman_.”

 _Talion_. He was probably the strangest of the lot. He and Sam heard his story from the army itself; once a Ranger of Gondor, he and his family were ritually murdered on Sauron’s orders, but thanks to the timely intervention of an Elven wraith, he survived and launched a crusade against the fallen Maia. In the beginning, it was just the two of them slaughtering orcs and captains, but after an accidental orc _rescue_ , they started accumulating strays - both Men and orcs - that grew into an army great enough to challenge Sauron for control of Mordor. After Minas Ithil fell, the surviving forces were eventually added to the whole, and they took the land’s fortresses one by one.

No one else had been there when Talion, Eltariel, and the Elf-wraith - _Celebrimbor the Ring-maker_ , if the rumors were to be believed - marched on the Dark Tower. At least, no one who still lived _and_ witnessed what happened; both Talion and Eltariel refused to speak of it. But the Elf-wraith was lost - some said _stolen_ \- and Talion had freed one of the Nine and been doomed to take his place. He had kept up the fight as long as he could - almost fifty-five years after being cursed.

And then… he fell.

“That was ten years ago,” said Mâku, who told them the tale in full instead of snatches overhead while eavesdropping, “He was the strongest of all of us - I seen him fight off _all_ the other Eight once, _including_ the Witch-king. We couldn't hold Mordor without him, his power protectin’ us, and his death-arts raisin’ Sauron’s side, turnin’ them against him, and he knew it, too. But the only place we gave up without a fight was Minas Morgul, cause that was where he was and he’d’a slaughtered us like pigs when the Eye finally took him.”

“To the Boss,” said Ishmoz, lifting his pint of grog, “The best damned fighter I ever saw, and the finest _tark_ that ever walked in Mordor.”

There were cheers all around, more pints held high, and from there they descended into war stories, tall tales about all kinds of things that Talion had supposedly done during his long tenure in the black land. Some were so outlandish that they were clearly made up, spinning Talion to be some kind of Maia, a servant of Mandos, or even a God of Death, but others had a grain of truth to them. If even a few of them were true, he deserved every bit of praise his people heaped on him.

* * *

Frodo, Sam, and Eltariel broke away from the main force as they drew near the fortress at Gorgoroth, heading instead for the slopes of Doom not too far away. They weren’t alone, however; packs of caragors and drakes lanced out from the army, hunting enemy patrols and giving them additional cover.

They saw the battle begin from afar. Such as it was; the leader of the fortress emerged on a high platform overlooking everything, but before the orc could even begin to speak, there was a roaring shriek overhead. Daerwen streaked down from the clouds above and snatched the leader up in her claws, then ducked her head and ripped him apart, sending body parts raining down on the fortress below.

Then the war-graugs charged the fortress walls, ripping huge holes in the metal and stone, and the force of orcs and Men swarmed inside.

“Come,” said Eltariel, “we must hurry.”

They followed her as fast as they could, having to sprint as best they could to keep up with her jog. Their group still encountered some enemy orcs on the way, and Eltariel dispatched them with the speed and precision that had helped her survive so long in Mordor.

And then they were climbing the slopes of the volcano, following a road cut into the rock. Yet as they went, the Ring grew heavier and heavier; it took everything Frodo had to keep his feet, even when Sam pulled one of his arms over his shoulder to take some of his weight. But he kept walking, kept putting one foot in front of the other - until Sam cried a warning.

Gollum snarled and lunged for Frodo and the Ring, but Eltariel was there in an instant, glowstone flashing and driving him back. “Go, hobbits!” she cried, whipping out her daggers and flipping them into position, “ _Run!_ ”

Frodo found the strength to obey and raced for the Cracks of Doom with Sam at his side.

What followed was mostly a blur - at least right then. But after his long struggle - like Talion’s - the Ring finally claimed him. Or he claimed it; it wasn't very clear. Yet for all that he’d tried to kill them or get them killed - at least twice - Gollum was his saving grace, biting the Ring from his hand, even though he took the finger with it.

But he was precariously perched on the edge of the platform, and it was so easy to push him off.

Frodo felt it the moment the Ring was undone, unmade. It broke something inside of him, but also set him free. He wanted more than anything to let go, to follow the Precious down into the fire, but he couldn't do that to Sam. He threw his hand up to catch the other hobbit’s - and Eltariel’s when she appeared, bruised and bleeding heavily from a gash on her temple; it looked like Gollum had tried to smash her skull with a rock.

She pulled him and Sam back through the doorway as the lava rose behind them, and they raced out onto a spur of rock, just out of reach of the red hot rock rolling past.

“It’s gone,” Frodo gasped, feeling like he could breathe for the first time since setting out on the quest, “It’s done.”

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam agreed, falling down next to him, “It’s over now.”

Eltariel seemed similarly relieved and exhausted, ripping part of her tunic to bind her head and slow the bleeding.

In the distance, there was an echoing whistle, followed by the answering roar of a fire drake.

Frodo wasn't sure how long it took before the heat started getting to him. He fell back to lie next to Sam, who was already unconscious, and through blurred vision he saw that Eltariel was still up, looking around, her glowstone at the ready to signal for rescue if anyone drew close enough to see.

His mind blurred again, but a flash of golden light called him back. He lifted his head and saw the Elf assassin was on her feet, arms outstretched. A moment later there was a rush of wind, and a great red mass landed at the base of the spur, just barely above the lava flow. It hissed.

Daerwen, Frodo realized, but there was a dark shape on her back, glowing eyes peering out from a shadowed hood.

But then his vision went dark, and he knew no more.


	2. Return from Darkness

When Frodo woke, he didn't recognize the room. The walls were white stone, well-made but unfamiliar, and the bed under him was soft but equally unknown, sized for a Man or an orc. But he must have been among friends, because Sam was in a Man-sized chair by the bed, slumped forward and asleep, rather than both of them in chains in a dungeon somewhere.

He smiled and examined his companion. The other hobbit looked well-fed and at least somewhat well-rested. After a moment, he seemed to sense Frodo’s gaze on him, because he stirred, blinked, then yelped. “Mr. Frodo! You’re awake! And here we was thinking you were gonna be out for a few more days!”

“‘A few more _days_ ’?” Frodo repeated, frowning, “How long has it been?”

“Well, the Ring was destroyed on March 25th,” said the other hobbit, “and now it’s April 1st.”

“And the others? Eltariel and Idril and everyone else? Are they well?”

“As well as can be,” Sam said cheerfully, “The whole city’s partying - I’m surprised we can’t hear it.”

“The _city’s partying_.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo. Idril and them took that fortress they were after, but they abandoned it right quick when the mountain erupted and turned back to their tunnels. But with Sauron’s forces scattered, there was no one really stopping them when they decided they wanted to come back to Minas Morgul. So, here we are.”

A moment later the door opened, and the dark-haired Elf from before entered. “Ah, you're awake,” he said with a smile, his voice like music, “Welcome back, Master Baggins. Call me Swinsere. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” the hobbit answered honestly.

“Glad to hear it,” the Elf replied, his smile widening, “Just let me give you a quick check, and then I’ll bring you some food. Once you finish that, you can get up and go observe the celebrations, if you like. I can’t say I recommend staying out for _too_ long, however; you’re still recovering.”

It was quick, and he checked the bandage on the hobbit’s hand, making sure it was secure, before bringing them bread, cheese, and fruit, along with some sort of roasted meat, and frothy beer to wash it all down. Then he led them through the halls and out into the courtyard before the Tower so they could look out over the city.

The instant they stepped outside, they were hit by a _wall_ of sound. It was less of a party and more of a riot, albeit without the destruction of property; there were people running through the streets, screaming and laughing and dancing and singing, Men and orcs but also some Elves that Frodo had never seen before, different than Swinsere and Eltariel, and even a handful of dwarves singing raucous drinking songs with the orcs and Men. The sun shone cheerfully down on them all, bright and warm.

“How long has this been going on?!” Frodo shouted over the noise.

“Pretty much the moment we arrived!” Swinsere called back, “There’s been little enough reason to celebrate these past years, so everyone’s really taking advantage!”

Frodo couldn't disagree. If living in Mordor all the time was anything like just those few days he’d experienced marching through the desolation of Gorgoroth with the closeness of the Eye making the Ring weigh heavy on his mind, then they quite deserved the chance to let loose and enjoy themselves.

Still, it was a little much for him, and even just _observing_ the party was making him tired. Swinsere noticed, of course, and led them back inside to their room.

But as they went, they came across a Man in the halls, talking to Idril and Baranor. He was deathly pale, made more so by his dark tunic and trousers, his skin almost white but shot through with veins of darkness, and his hair looked black against the white stone all around. The sword and dagger from the cavern monument were belted over his back.

“You finally changed out of your armor!” the Elf said as they drew near.

 **“Yes, Swinsere, I did,”** said the Man, his voice hollow and metallic, turning to face the Elf even as he rolled his eyes, **“There’s no need to act so shocked - you’ve only been nagging me about it for nigh on fifty years.”**

The whites of the Man’s eyes were black, but his irises _glowed_ , a soft, benign blue like the sky - or like the heart of a flame.

“If you're not going into battle, there’s no call for wearing your armor while off duty in a place known to be safe, especially since you are _banished from death_ ,” Swinsere replied with the tone of one who had been repeating it for a long time, “Besides, you have _bodyguards_ for a _reason_ , Talion.”

So _this_ was Talion, the Gravewalker and Wind-Rider of Mordor. He looked like he’d had an even worse time of it than Frodo.

Swinsere introduced them to the former Nazgûl, and he too recognized their names. **“Shire,”** he said, **“ _Baggins_ ,” **\- what Gollum had told his torturers so long ago. Then the Man sank to one knee and bowed his head to them both. **“ _Thank you_ , for setting us all free.”**

* * *

Grief hung over the Fellowship like a pall. Minas Tirith was rising to celebrate the accession of her new king, but in their chambers there was no laughter or song. Gandalf seemed the worst off of them all; he’d barely spoken since he and the Great Eagles had failed to find Frodo and Sam on the slopes of Orodruin. Pippin spent most of the day crying silently as he went about his duties, and though Merry was trying to stay strong for him, it was obvious that the other hobbit had been hit just as hard by their friends’ deaths. Aragorn had the duties of his new kingdom to attend to, and he did so faithfully, but to those who knew him, it was obvious that he was mourning Frodo and Sam as well.

And then one day, about a month after the fall of the Dark Tower, there was a knock at their door.

It was Faramir. He understood their grief, and so would not have disturbed them without need. “Forgive me, my lords,” he said, “but there’s a party of Men coming up the road to Minas Tirith - not one we recognize, and they seem to have slipped past our patrols. If you would be so kind as to lend us your Elven sight, Prince Legolas, I would like to know who to expect and what kind of welcome to prepare.”

They went down to the outermost wall, and saw well in the distance a faint dust cloud from an approaching party, small and coming slowly up the road to the city. Legolas sprang easily up onto a few broken stones to peer out into the distance. Then he stopped, rubbed his eyes, and peered again. “It cannot be…”

“Legolas?” Aragorn asked, “What do you see?”

“They are Men indeed - and women, and two Elves and a dwarf, unless my eyes deceive me,” the Elf answered, grief falling away before swiftly dawning joy, “and they have Frodo and Sam with them!”

“ _What?!_ ”

By the time the party reached the gates, the Fellowship had nearly worked themselves into a frenzy. It _was_ the missing hobbits, and they waited only long enough for the halflings to be lifted down from the horses they’d been sharing before they all rushed together in one crushing embrace, full of laughter and delight.

There was no time to tell their tales, not right then. Instead, the two hobbits and the people who brought them were welcomed to the palace, a small feast prepared to celebrate the reunion. It was only then that the tale of the journey was related on both sides.

To say that the rest of the Fellowship was shocked that _orcs_ had helped the Ringbearers with their task was an understatement unlike any other, especially given that they had just fought a war against them. And then to hear that one of the Nine had rescued them from Mount Doom - unreal. Still, they were nothing but grateful and gladly welcomed the representatives from Mordor - including a cousin of Faramir, it seemed.

“All the noble houses of Gondor are interrelated,” the Steward informed them after greeting the woman Idril, “and we have lost many to the war. _Too_ many. It is good indeed that one yet survives - we’ve had almost no word since long before the fall of Minas Ithil.”

“Nothing at all from Castamir in the time of the siege before the fall?” Idril questioned.

“No, nothing.”

She pressed her lips together. “I thought not.”

“What troubles you?”

“Castamir sold the city out to the Witch-king in an attempt to save my life,” she answered, calm and factual, “It failed. ‘She is free to die with her people,’ he said, and then killed Castamir in front of me. Thus, it does not at all surprise me to learn he never sent for aid from Gondor.”

“Is that why you said Talion raised you better than your blood father?” Frodo asked.

“Indeed. He also thought that a woman might kill the Witch-king where countless men had failed and so let me train and fight as I desired. ‘Not by the hand of man shall he fall,’ so why not let a woman try?”

“He was correct,” said Éomer, “for my own sister Éowyn cut the monster down on the Fields of the Pelennor.”

“I am glad to hear it, and may her name be held in honor and long memory.”

* * *

They stayed for the coronation, of course. When Elrond and Galadriel arrived, they discovered that one of the Elves, “Swinsere”, was actually Maglor of the House of Fëanor, and the other was an assassin sent by Lady of Lothlórien to Mordor a century ago in an attempt to curb the strength of the Nazgûl. The dwarf was Gerdi, a distant cousin of the now late King of Erebor, Dáin II.

Idril also presented the Sceptre of Númenor to Aragorn as a gift from the people of Mordor on the occasion of his accession to the throne. “Talion took it from Sauron years ago,” she said, going to one knee and offering it up to the Man, “He found it when he once laid siege to Barad-dûr itself, seeking something, but I never learned what he _actually_ sought. I think he’s forgotten, too, but he found _this_ under heavy guard somewhere within. The sheer number of protections on it were enough to convince him of its provenance.”

Aragorn accepted it gladly, and the Sceptre accepted him as the new king.

* * *

Much to Frodo’s surprise, on the way back to the Shire he saw Daerwen flying high near the east entrance to Khazad-dûm. There was no mistaking her red bulk against the blue sky, and he convinced the Fellowship to let Gandalf to signal her and Talion on her back.

The Nazgûl spotted them and came down, the drake purring like a kitten under his touch, so unlike her vicious attack against the Overlord of Gorgoroth. **“Master Baggins, Master Gamgee,”** he rumbled, **“I did not expect to see you again after you departed Mordor.”**

“Neither did we,” said the hobbit, and introduced their companions before continuing, “What brings you so far west?”

 **“Coin,”** was the reply, **“Rebuilding an entire nation is costly, and Mordor’s reserves of _mithril_ are running low.”**

Gimli perked up at that. “ _Mithril_ , you say? You are able to retrieve _mithril_ from the Mines of Khazad-dûm, despite the orc armies and the Balrog?”

**“Indeed, Master Gimli. The Balrog is gone now, I understand, dispatched by Master Gandalf here, and though these orcs do not call me their lord, I do not fear them. If anything, they know to fear _me_ ; before my fall, I spent some time stocking up on _mithril_ for my people, which meant slaughtering them in droves.”**

The dwarf tugged his beard in contemplation. “I will need to speak with my kin in Erebor,” he said, “but there might be those willing to negotiate trade with Mordor in exchange for _mithril_.”

Talion smiled a little at that. **“If that is their wish, they can find me in Minas Morgul - or I suppose she is Minas Ithil once more. Unless, of course, His Majesty wishes to reclaim his city?”**

Aragorn just sighed. “And here I was hoping I would not have to make any political decisions on this journey,” he said almost wistfully, even as Arwen laughed softly beside him.

 **“My apologies,”** said the Ringwraith, not meaning a word of it.

The king waved a hand. “Keep her for now. We will negotiate properly when we all return home.”

The Nazgûl bowed and departed soon after, vanishing into the mines together with Daerwen, and that was the last time Frodo saw him on the shores of Middle-earth.


End file.
